Ever go to the O.B., take one look at the doc and freak out? I do. My doc has big hands. Freaking honkers.
But I don't want to talk about that today. Nobody needs to read about my hooha doctor and as I sat on the "table" of all uncomfortable tables, I realized that I didn't really have two seconds to think and staring at medical degrees and feminine froofroo pictures on the wall was the ONLY time I was going to take a breather.
We are moving. Right in the middle of the insanity that is Christmas the Hubsters lands a new job in a city three states away (1300 miles). In the midst of home showings, cleaning, repairing and trying not to eat myself into a Pillsbury dough girl, the Hubsters crunches the front end of his truck FIVE DAYS BEFORE he has to leave for his new job. Awesome. Add a diva dog, AWOL kids and a realtor that calls for showings an hour previous to the appointment (and my house a bombed mess of course) and you can understand why I went a little crazy sitting on the O.B. table eyeing Dr. Big Mitts with no small amount of trepidation.
So, I did what any girl does in a bind. I called my mom. BAD move. My mom is a fantastic lady, but she wasn't who answered the phone. My dad did and he was either stone drunk or high.
Before your eyes pop out of your head, my dad is dying. He has stage four colon cancer that has gravitated to his liver and lungs. He is a straight-laced, abide by the rules Mormon. That means that drugs and alcohol is strictly forbidden in his mind and he has been that way his entire life. Why was he sky high on what ever he took? The man is in pain. Enough said.
It's tough to talk to my dad when he's drunk. Though, for the record, this is a totally new experience for me. Normally, without the aid of morphine and other numbing agents, he is a talker. He can talk for hours on whatever subject has passionately captured his attention and keep it up until he's talked you into circles and thinking up is down and vice versa. When he's flying high it was like the man was on a fast forward broken record. If I had twisted sense of humor, it would have been funny.
I have since bagged calling someone to unload. Plan B is to beat it out on the pavement. Running works, to a point however, because I have to stop and catch my breath and it is stinking cold out. Plan C is to enlist the Hubsters. I have limited time with the man and I am married to him, so steamy stuff is permissible. What is NOT permissible is the bite marks on my ass I ended up with. How his teeth got on my butt is neither here nor there, but can I just say.. OUCH?!
At this point, I am going for Plan D, which is to throw myself down on the couch and let myself have a good cry. Anyone want to come over and join me? I'll supply the chocolate.